Jason XI
by darkkat
Summary: Set after Part 7 and ignoring Parts 8 and 9. Jason Voorhees returns once more and sets about his favourite hobby of slaughtering more teens who have the misfortune to be staying at Camp Crystal Lake...
1. Default Chapter

Obligatory Disclaimer:  
  
Jason Voorhees, Camp Crystal Lake and the Friday the 13th films are copyright to New Line Entertainment.   
  
All of these characters are being used without permission. In a 'nice' way, though.   
  
All other characters are copyright myself, and I would prefer it if I were at least informed if you feel the need to steal them.   
  
I am making no money whatsoever from this fanfic.   
  
***  
  
CHAPTER ONE:  
Two nights previously...   
  
***  
  
Stan was pissed off with his lot in life.  
  
No matter how hard he tried, he just didn't seem to be going anywhere. And oh, he tried. Anything to stop Cheryl from nagging and complaining to him all hours of the day and night, if nothing else. His wife had seemed intent, over the last few months, on blaming him for everything - from the hole in the porch roof to him losing his job - even the hole in the ozone layer.  
  
Well, he couldn't do much to fix the porch roof until they had some money spare, could he? He'd done his best; fixed an old tarp over the hole and nailed it in place, but it hadn't held, and the big thunderstorm they'd had couple weeks back had ripped it right off - and taken another big chunk of the roof with it. But that wasn't his fault now, was it?  
  
And he'd been trying to get a new job. But there wasn't much work out there for a forty-something steelworker, especially since the plant had closed down, and he just wasn't much skilled.  
  
Cheryl seemed to think that it was all down to his drinking, though. Stan just wished she'd realise that, if she didn't nag him so much, they wouldn't have all the rows when she would cuss him out, and he would leave and go down to the bar to relax and cool down. So what if he'd been drinking a little more since he lost his job? A man's got a right to be a little depressed over shit like that, right? And it wasn't as if he had a problem with it, like some people. Nah, he liked a few beers in the afternoon with his pals down at the bar, but that was just social drinking. And in the evening, too. It wasn't like he was getting out of bed in the morning and starting drinking right there and then.  
  
Hell, most days he wasn't even up until noon anyway.  
  
The worst thing about it all was the fact that Cheryl wanted him to quit going up to the lake to drink in the evenings every once in a while. Didn't the dumb bitch realise that that was the only time he actually got to think in peace and quiet? She said she wanted him at home more, to spend more time with her and the kids. Stan couldn't bear to be stuck in the house with them anyway, with all the noise and nagging he just felt like his head was going to explode.  
  
When he had left to come up to the lake that evening, Cheryl had stood on the porch (right underneath the hole) and shouted after him that if he was going up to the lake to get drunk, then he shouldn't bother coming back.  
  
Dumb bitch.  
  
So Stan sat at the edge of the lake, leaning against the side of his pickup with a beer in his hand, looking out at the water and the reflection of the moon and stars on it. Looking at all this, he could almost believe that he didn't have a problem in the world; that his life was as calm as the lake itself.  
  
Except that, at that point, the lake wasn't all that calm.  
  
Something appeared to be churning up the waters there at the centre of the lake, underneath the surface. Waves spread out from a central point, and Stan could just make out clouds of mud and silt from the lake bed being kicked and churned up in great clouds under the water's surface.  
  
"What the fuck...?" Stan asked, standing up and taking a wobbly few steps towards the lake to try to get a better look. He knew he wasn't drunk; it was still early, and he was only on his fourth beer. So what the hell was going on in the lake?  
  
Something seemed to float to the surface; something long. A snake? No, there were no water snakes that big in the lake. As a second object floated to the surface, and then a third, Stan tried to get a closer look, standing right at the edge of the lake and using the moonlight as a aid to trying to see what was going on. He wished he had thought to get his torch from the back of his pickup.  
  
Suddenly, there was a huge crashing of water as something large nearly leapt straight up out of the water and into the air at the centre of all the disturbance. Stan didn't expect that and he fell backwards in shock and landed on his ass. He sat there in the mud, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. Any buzz he might have had from his beers was gone in a flash, he thought, and he counted himself lucky he hadn't pissed in his pants.  
  
A man had just come up from under the water in the lake. A big man; well over the six, and heavy built with it. Stan wondered how he had ended up in the water; after all, he had been sitting there for a good hour or so, and he hadn't seen another living soul. What had this guy been doing down there, scuba diving or something? Even at a distance, Stan could tell that he was all muscle. His clothes were ragged, but still more or less intact, and looked as if they were some kind of old boiler suit or something.  
  
By far the strangest thing about this man, though, was his face. Although the light from the moon only partially lit the area, when the light fell on the man's face it seemed smooth and almost featureless. Then when Stan squinted hard, he recognised a few features, and realised that the man was really wearing a white hockey mask. All he could see of those were two dark pools of shadow where the eye holes should be - and a set of breathing holes around the mouth area.  
  
So what the hell was a man in a hockey mask doing in Crystal Lake in the middle of the night?  
  
"Hey!" Stan yelled, trying to catch the man's attention. "Hey you! In the lake! Are you okay in there?" He wondered if he should have just gotten in his truck and high-tailed it out of there, but the guy might be in trouble. 'Local Hero Saves Man From Drowning' had a nice ring to it. Might even shut Cheryl up too.  
  
The man had been looking around the lake while seeming to tread water, bobbing up and down in the water. Now, he turned his head slowly in Stan's direction, and even though he still couldn't see the man's eyes, he was certain that the man's gaze was now fixed upon him. A shiver ran down his spine; he was suddenly very aware of the fact that he was all alone out by the lake, and no-one was around for miles. If anything happened...  
  
The man headed towards him.  
  
Stan scrambled to get to his feet - partly in case the man needed help of any sort and partly in case he needed to get a quick getaway. The old stories were suddenly all coming back to him: all the murders that had happened at the lake and the camp sites nearby over the years, all the teenagers killed. Stan had thought it was all a load of bullshit himself, tales made up by whacked-out college kids on dope or crack or whatever the hell they took - but he was also remembering what the stories had said about the murderer... About how he had drowned in the lake as a boy, and had been stopped in the end by being drowned in the lake again...  
  
The man, although having to wade through the water, was moving quickly and was now almost at the shore of the lake. He was getting closer.  
  
Now that he was closer, Stan could make out more details about the man. Tall and powerful, and menacing - even more so now that he was closer. The boiler suit he was wearing was obviously old and dirty, even through the water, but it still held together. And the expressionless mask... The leather straps holding it to his head were clearly visible, as the man had no hair. The straps were digging into his scalp, causing bulges of skin along their edges. It almost appeared to have sunk into the flesh of the man's head, so tightly fitting was it.  
  
Stan took an involuntary step back as the man approached. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. "Hey..." he began, "What the fuck? You trying to give me a heart disfunction here or what?"  
  
One of the man's huge, beefy hands shot out and grabbed Stan around the throat, cutting him off. As he struggled for air, Stan realised with breathless horror that he was being lifted, one-handed, into the air by this man, who still wasn't making a sound. He couldn't even hear his breathing. His eyes bulged in terror. All thoughts of Cheryl's nagging, his unemployment, everything, were gone as he stared into the featureless mask and dark eye holes of the man holding him in the air and calmly choking the life out of him.  
  
The man cocked his head slightly to one side, as if considering something. Then he pulled his other hand back in a fist, and suddenly drove it forward, towards Stan's chest.  
  
Stan felt a sudden, excruciating pain in his chest, and for a moment he thought he was having a heart attack. He heard and felt a cracking sensation in his chest, and then it suddenly became even harder to breathe. He looked down at his body, still being held in midair... and saw the man's arm, buried in his chest up to his elbow.  
  
The reason he couldn't breathe was because the man had punched his lungs out through his back.  
  
The man pulled his arm back out of the ruin that had been Stan's chest. He was clutching something in his hand. Had he still been alive, Stan wouldn't have been able to recognise it, but it was his heart, ripped straight from his body.  
  
The man released his grip on Stan's throat, and his body dropped to the ground heavily, landing in a heap. Without a second thought, the man tossed the crushed and bleeding heart on top of the body, then turned and walked into the woods.  
  
Jason Voorhees was home. 


	2. Chapter Two

Obligatory Disclaimer:  
  
The X-Men and all associated characters are the property of Marvel Entertainment Group.  
  
The WoD and the concept of Mages and associated points are copyrighted to White Wolf Games.  
  
Jason Voorhees, Camp Crystal Lake and the Friday the 13th films are copyright to New Line Entertainment.  
  
All of these characters are being used without permission. In a nice way, though.  
  
All other characters are copyright myself, and I would prefer it if I were at least informed if you feel the need to steal them.  
  
I am making no money whatsoever from this fanfic.  
  
***  
  
Brief Note:  
  
It's a strange combination, I know. Hopefully it shouldn't turn out too badly.  
  
***  
  
Chapter Two:  
  
Present Day...  
  
Cursing under her breath in Italian, Bekki Torelli put one foot and both hands on the sleeping bag sticking out of the top of her rucksack, and pushed down as hard as she could.  
  
Her hands sank into the slightly shiny, rustling material, but other than that her latest attempt to fit everything into her pack didn't work. Pulled off-balance by her hands' sudden drop in height and the fact that she was standing only on one leg, Bekki wobbled and very nearly pitched forward into her own pack, managing to right herself only at the last minute.  
  
"This," she said to the world at large, "is a bad omen."  
  
Then, with renewed vigour - or perhaps a last-ditch, all-out attack on the sleeping bag - she set about the rucksack and its contents one more time, pushing the sleeping bag into every available space inside the pack she could find. It didn't work, though. For every corner or piece of the sleeping bag she managed to force into a space, another would pop up from somewhere.  
  
This, Bekki decided, needed more swearing, this time in a mixture of English and Italian. That earned her a few curious looks from other pupils around her, adding to the small crowd of onlookers who had already gathered to watch the show. After all, it wasn't every day that you got to watch Rebecca Torelli being brought low by an inanimate object.  
  
Bekki really, really wanted to hit something. She cast a prospective eye over the people watching her, who knew well enough to back away or suddenly find something else to do. She stuck her tongue out at the few who remained, more out of exasperation than anything else.  
  
"You know, some help would be nice," she said to them. "It's not a free show, after all."  
  
A hand came from behind her and righted the rucksack, which was in danger of toppling over and spilling its contents everywhere as a result of the pummelling it was taking from her. "You know, you'd find this a whole lot easier to do if you actually folded the sleeping bag," said Nate Grey as he stepped around her and started pulling the offending article out. Bekki glowered at him.  
  
"It was folded," she told him, hands on hips. "It's not my fault if the material they use to make these things won't stay in the shape you want it to, is it?"  
  
"Yeah... but using it as a punching bag? Gym's that way, sweetheart, you know that." Nate folded the sleeping bag up expertly, making it into a package about a tenth of its original size. He then pushed it back into the top of Bekki's rucksack and, before it had a chance to expand and start unfolding again, quickly pulled the drawstrings tight, closing the top over and holding everything in.  
  
"Yeah, well... I know where I'd rather be going right now," Bekki, trying not to look impressed at her boyfriend doing the seemingly impossible, admitted. "Four days? We'll all be dead from cold in two!" She started tying her red hair back, using a hairband she had been wearing on her wrist until then. "And if the weather doesn't get us, the mosquitoes will. We'll all end up swelling up like watermelons."  
  
"It's not that bad," Nate assured her. "I spent two years camping out under the stars every night, remember? And I'm still here, and not in the least bit shaped like a watermelon."  
  
"Yeah, but you didn't have a choice in the matter," Bekki reminded him. "This is a school trip, for crying out loud! And I'll bet Apocalypse killed all the mosquitoes or something. Survival of the things that don't bite huge chunks out of you or something."  
  
"You have a unique talent for finding the worst in everything, don't you Rebecca?"  
  
"Yeah - I'm just a curmudgeonly bitch, ain't I?"  
  
Picking up the rucksack, Bekki and Nate made their way over to the school minivan, where the other two members of their little field trip had been waiting. Kyle Anderson and JJ Summers looked about the same way that Bekki felt. Only Nate actually seemed to be looking forward to the excursion.  
  
"I'm going to die from caffeine withdrawal," JJ was saying. "I'll slip into a coma some time on the second day, and the rest of you will have to eat me to stay alive".  
  
"I'll tell your father you died well, then," Kyle replied without missing a beat. "Oh, and can I have your computer?"  
  
JJ, smiling all the while, raised his middle finger at Kyle. "Touch my computer and die horribly and in many pieces," he advised.  
  
Bekki went to put her rucksack in the back of the van. She tossed it in rather more harshly than she should have done, but as she was feeling a great resentment towards rucksacks in particular and camping gear in general at that point, she was past caring. The pack bounced off a couple of the other packs there before landing on its front with a dull thud. After that, she returned to her friends at the side of the van.  
  
"I'm just surprised Logan is letting us take so much stuff," Nate was saying as she returned.  
  
"I wouldn't call a tent, a sleeping bag, a first aid kit and a small amount of food a lot," Kyle replied. "I don't know how to put a tent up! And how're we supposed to cook the food? And what happens if the clothes we've got get soaked or wrecked or something?"  
  
"So speaks he who lived on the streets for four years," Nate replied, trying not to laugh.  
  
Kyle glared daggers at Nate. "So I've been coddled by the affluence here and lost my finely-honed survival skills," he muttered. "It's not a crime, is it?"  
  
"I give it two hours before you go native," JJ told him, trying to mollify his sulking friend. "At least he's letting us take torches, and not have to light burning hunks of wood or spontaneously develop night vision."  
  
Kyle, nyctophobic for as long as he could remember, simply nodded grimly. Almost unconsciously, his hand moved down to the side pocket of his combat pants, where his own torch was and rested there for reassurance.  
  
"Knowing Logan, he probably wanted us to go naked except for a few streaks of camo paint and a combat knife," JJ continued as he looked up at the sky.  
  
"Yeah, but Chuck said the school's insurance wouldn't cover it," a gruff voice from behind the van said, making all four of them jump.  
  
"That figures," Bekki said, recovering quickly.  
  
A short, stocky and rather hirsute man who could nearly always be found with a cigar between his teeth, Logan didn't look one bit like the typical teacher. Nor was he. This particular class of his was known among the student body as 'Survival 101', and this was the field trip part of it. If it wasn't for the fact that it was a compulsory class, it's likely that no- one would have taken it. But the Xavier School for Gifted Children had some strange classes indeed; 'Survival 101' was positively tame next to some of them. Taking his students out in small groups for a few days camping in the woods, as far away from civilization as he could get away with was his idea of teaching.  
  
"You all ready to go?" Logan asked from around his cigar as he lit it. "'Cause we're only burnin' daylight here, an' it'll be tougher to put those tents up in the dark."  
  
There was a chorus of desultory noises of agreement, and the four students got into the minivan. After a brief scuffle over who got to sit by the windows, everyone was seated and ready to go - albeit not too happy about it.  
  
Bekki, having secured a window seat, promptly wound it down and lit up a cigarette of her own - only to have it taken out of her mouth almost immediately by Logan. She raised an eyebrow at him quizzically.  
  
"Whole purpose of this little excursion is to have you kids learn to survive out in the open with just the bare essentials," he told her without any signs of compassion. "So that means no mobile phones, no laptop computers, no caffeine-" here he was looking directly at JJ, who pretended to sulk - "-and no cigarettes. So hand 'em over, darlin'."  
  
Bekki was almost ready to argue with him. Almost, but getting killed on the survival training field trip before they had even left the school grounds would probably be grounds for a fail, so grudgingly, she handed over her two packs of Marlboros.  
  
"You'll get 'em back at the end of this little excursion," Logan told her. "Don't worry; they ain't my brand," he added when she gave him a rather sceptical look.  
  
Logan got into the minivan's driver's seat, and started it up. "Everybody ready?"  
  
"I have a bad feeling about this," JJ informed everyone.  
  
"That's 'cause you're going to be without caffeine or computers for a few days, kid. It'll do you some good, believe me."  
  
"... True but if I get eaten by wild rabid raccoons, you're the one telling my father, remember?"  
  
"That, Summers, is why God invented permission slips," he replied before putting the minivan in gear and starting off as if the engine had personally insulted his honour.  
  
And they were off. 


End file.
